Minds Terrors
by AshPash1392
Summary: John is awoken by night terrors - what will Sherlock do?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first Sherlock fanfic – I had the intention of writing a cute, fluffy one shot. Promise it wasn't meant to come out this angsty :( **** please, be gentle with me, and let me know if it needs follow up chapter?**

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He can't breathe. The impact of the bullet has knocked him to the dusty ground, and he's not sure whether it's shock, or from the hard landing, but either way his lungs decide to stop working. He's a medical man, trained for years to hold up under pressure, so why can't he fight through the fog that's sprung up in his head?

Then suddenly, he's back – his ears assaulted by the barrage of bullets sweeping across, and through men; the blood running down his shoulder, feeling like lava kept hot by the scalding midday sun overhead; his eyes searching for another medic, and seeing only the blank stares of his comrades staring out from battle ravaged faces, bodies torn apart by enemy fire.

And then, time slows down to a crawl as he catches sight of Tommy forging ahead – not 22, on his first tour of duty, yet this doesn't stop the bullets from slamming into him, dropping him to the ground like a rag doll.

John is startled into action, using his uninjured arm to pull himself towards the wounded boy. But no matter how much effort he puts in, he can't get any closer. And then something starts to drag him back, drag him down. He feels himself being pulled over an edge, and falling…falling….

John snaps awake, sweating and breathing heavily, his old wound pounding from phantom pain, and eyes wildly traveling around the room trying to make sense of his surroundings. Finally recognition hit, and John clutched the blanket tightly to his chest. "221B Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. 221B Baker Street…." He whispered to himself, over and over again.

Unnoticed by John, the light footsteps of his roommate came to a hesitant stop outside his door. He would have been surprised had he seen the self-confessed sociopath tentatively reach towards the doorknob, debating with himself before dropping his hand back to his side and moving off towards his own room.


	2. Chapter 2

As Johns alarm went off the next morning, he groaned and rubbed his gritty eyes before switching it off. He briefly contemplated hiding out in his room for the day, but just a quickly dismissed the idea, knowing that Sherlock would come looking for him if he didn't come down before 10 for his usual morning cup of tea.

Dragging himself out of bed, he felt like an old man as he shuffled over to his dresser to pull out a heavy jumper to put on over his pyjamas. Automatically reaching for his favourite one, he hesitated before deliberately choosing a different one at random. Although he could do nothing to hide the dark shadows under his eyes, he could mask all other signs of the nightmare – despite the common belief that Sherlock was somehow all knowing, John knew that he was simply more observant than his fellow man. Couple that with his extraordinary intelligence, and learned knowledge, it was understandable that most people he met were unnerved by his deductions.

Not particularly relishing the idea of Sherlock's awkward attempts at comforting him by dissecting each memory and his reaction, John set about his usual morning routine, starting off by making his bed with military precision. Before leaving his room he rolled his shoulder a few times to try and ease the stiffness that had set in, then took a deep breath in and out, opened the door and travelled down the stairs with a deliberately controlled gait, rather than limping as he felt like doing.

"Morning Sherlock" John breezed through the living room and into the kitchen, but stopped short when he saw the kettle already boiling on the stove top – an out of character action for Sherlock, meaning that he must have had some inkling that John did not enjoy a peaceful night's sleep. "You must have gotten some sleep last night, if you're so desperate for coffee that you were going to attempt to make your own" John joked as he set out two mugs, and began preparing their drinks.

Sherlock had yet to say a word, or move from his position on the coach, hands held over pursed lips as he scanned John's demeanor; no obvious limp, no favouritism of either arm, bags under his eyes but an erect posture, and his usual humour all indicated nothing out of the ordinary. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would not have thought anything was amiss with his roommate, and yet he could still remember John's voice sounding broken and scared, like a young boy lost in the dark.

Obviously John didn't want Sherlock to know about the nightmare, meaning he didn't want to be treated any differently than normal. As Sherlock took the cup offered to him with a murmured "Thanks", he began plotting. It was true that he didn't have a high opinion about 95% of the people he encountered, but John had always been different, accepting Sherlock's little quirks and lack of general social graces with little complaint. The situation called for a different tactic as Sherlock was determined to offer some form of comfort to John – the trick would be getting John to accept it.

Sherlock absentmindedly sipped his coffee as he stared at John reading the paper in his favourite armchair. Yes, a different tactic entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

"Quickly John, crime isn't going to wait while you fiddle about with your coat." Sherlock paces impatiently by the door, no doubt eager to be off in search of excitement and the promise of a suitably difficult puzzle to be solved. Usually John would be just as eager, but today he felt like wallowing about the flat. However Sherlock had been unusually insistent that he needed John's company today, probably only to play audience to his crime solving theatrics. John was careful not to let a sigh slip out as he finished zipping up his coat and tucked his mobile into one of the pockets, before following Sherlock out the open door into the dreary winter weather lurking outside the warmth of 221B Baker Street.

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After a day spent racing around the seedier side of London, only to lose their target in the maze of back alleys, the pair returned to Baker Street tired and wet. If John hadn't been so exhausted from the days activity he would have been suspicious of Sherlock's good humour after losing his suspect. However all he could think about was a hot shower and his warm bed. While he headed to the bathroom to strip out of his damp clothes and shower, Sherlock went straight to the kitchen and rummaged around one of the cupboards until he found one elusive can of soup that had managed to escape his experiments. Dumping it into a bowl, he put it in the microwave to heat then bustled about the kitchen in a very familiar way that would have shocked John had he seen it. By the time John emerged from the bathroom, wearily scrubbing a towel over his hair to dry it, Sherlock had disappeared presumably to his room leaving a tray on the side table next to John's favourite chair. Sighing in pleasure as he sank into the chair, he inspected the offerings of soup, toast and tea. He hadn't even realized how famished he was until the smell hit him, and his stomach clenched and growled. Glad there was no-one there to watch John made brief work of the simple meal, then relaxed back into the cushions of his chair. When he felt his eyes closing against his will, he hauled himself up and made his way slowly up to his room where he collapsed onto his bed, barely enough energy to pull the covers over himself. He managed to get them over his legs before giving up and letting sleep take him.

Sherlock waited an hour to be sure John would be sleeping, before quietly making his way to John's room. He felt a glow of pride for himself upon seeing his flatmate enjoying a deep, undisturbed sleep. Since John would not let him comfort him in the conventional way, Sherlock could only ensure that John would be sufficiently worn out so that no nightmares would disturb him this night. Pulling the bed covers all the way up Johns body, Sherlock lingered a moment before leaving the room, pulling the door gently closed behind himself.


End file.
